


Tragedies That Tear Us Apart

by Alexdoesthings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Rape Aftermath, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexdoesthings/pseuds/Alexdoesthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bad things weren't supposed to happen. That was the Sheriff's job, to keep tragedies like this locked away in that dark little space under the bed where they couldn't get out and rip lives apart. But Stiles had long grown out of the habit of asking his father to lock the monster under the bed so it couldn't get out.</p><p>Stiles is brought into the hospital unconscious and close to death, attacked by something with both animal claws and human fingers. The werewolves follow the scents to their ludicrous conclusions and the police chase down a more puzzling series of evidence than they realize, but no one seems able to understand what happened. With Derek's memory blank, Scott's guilt blinding him, and Stiles's mouth shut, even the right assumption is the wrong answer and everyone is out for blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sheriff Stilinski

**Author's Note:**

> This is a super serious note!!! This is the last story I was ever expecting to write, ever.
> 
> There is not only mentions but depictions of rape and violence. If any of the above bothers you then you should definitely avoid this fanfiction and check out the rest of my works or take a look at the fluff tag. If you do still choose to venture in, I will be labeling the chapter where I describe the incident in detail so you can avoid it if you'd like, though there are mentions of it throughout.
> 
> That said! If you can stomach watch an episode of a dark crime drama or some other show where they deal with the hard punches life deals or an eighties horror movie, then you should be perfectly fine to read this. This story is a little twisted in its nature, there's no denying that, but it's not as bad as some.
> 
> Disclaimer! There is nothing in here that should be taken as instructional. Also, I have never been nor have I known anyone who has been through such an experience and I did not do much research so some things may not be realist, but that is the nature of fiction.

They’d called him ten minutes ago to inform him that Stiles had been taken in at the Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital in critical condition. He’d abused his siren and driven like a mad man to get there.

He ran in and fought a sea of chaos to try and get to Stiles. One of his deputies was holding him back as he struggled to reach his son. A nurse was yelling at him that he couldn’t see Stiles right now, he needed to go back and wait while the staff did their job. The elder Stilinski would not be calmed into submissively going to wait in one of those lobby chairs he was far too familiar with; he was mad with the desperation to see his boy. Everyone had to shout to be heard over his yelling of Stiles’s name, desperate and incoherent.

He finally caught a glimpse through the glass at Stiles as a gap opened between the medical staff. His legs gave out and he went limp against his startled deputy, who stumbled at the sudden weight and lack of resistance. The Sheriff would be on the floor were it not for the strong arms of the young deputy now holding the entirety of his weight.

Stiles was a mess of blood, bruising, and caked on dirt and debris. There didn’t seem to be an unharmed inch of skin on him and he was still bleeding in a couple of places. He was unconscious, ankle twisted at an odd angle, long mangled cuts crisscrossing his body, and his chest oddly shaped from what the Sheriff recognized as broken ribs.

There were people talking to him but he was too numb to hear any of it. That was his Stiles, his son, laying in there, broken and bleeding and he was helpless. He hadn’t been able to protect him, couldn’t protect him now. He barely registered being drug to the waiting room and deposited in a chair. He was riddled with fear and guilt. Stiles could die here and he’d lose him, just like his mother. Stiles was all he had left, his only son, it was his job to protect him but he’d failed. He didn’t even know where Stiles had been tonight, where he could have possibly gotten those injuries.

Time had no meaning in the Sheriff’s worried state. At some point, someone shoved a drink into his hands. He mumbled his thanks and drank it but didn’t taste it. Everything in his head was centered on Stiles, desperately hoping he’d pull through. He didn’t know when he’d gotten there or how long he sat in that chair before the doctor finally came to inform him on Stiles’s condition. When he saw the older man, dressed in the soft colors of the hospital staff, walking toward him, he shot up, fearing the worst.

“Is he,” but the Sheriff couldn’t finish his question, voice too full of emotion and mind racing with half formed, fevered thoughts.

He knew the doctor, he’d worked in the hospital for some years, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember his name. The doctor’s eyes were kind behind his spectacles and his voice was calm as he said, “Your son is stable, sir, there’s no need to worry.”

Sheriff Stilinski disagreed with that sentiment, but was almost limp with relief at the news. Stiles was alive, that’s what mattered now. “What happened,” the Sheriff asked hoarsely, throat still raw from shouting.

The doctor’s voice was as calming and soothing as he could make it as he avoideded answering the question, “Sheriff Stilinski, we’ll keep you informed, but you need to be patient.”

The Sheriff’s wound nerves and the abject terror for his son’s safety that had been roiling under his skin since he’d gotten the call was manifesting itself in raw, unrestrained fury that made him want to shake the man.

“What happened,” the Sheriff asked angrily, voice getting louder when he saw the man preparing to calm him down instead of give him answers, “What happened to my son?!”

“Right now, we don’t know anything for sure about what’s happened to him,” the doctor said, making an effort not to be effected by the nearly murderous rage the father before him was putting out.

“How can you not know,” the Sheriff roared, cutting off whatever the doctor was going to add.

The man was trying to stay calm, holding up his hands in a placating gesture and saying, “We’re doing everything we can for him, but I’ve never seen a case like this, sir. He has scratch marks and broken bones like some kind of animal attacked him, but the bruising on his body, especially around his hips, suggests it was…” The man trailed off, rubbing his head and looking away from the Sheriff. He’d been at this profession a long time but this part never got any easier.

The elder Stilinski was giving him a hard stare, waiting to hear the rest, dreading it but needing to know. The doctor took a deep, calming breath and his eyes were tired and full of sympathy for the Sheriff. He said, as delicately as he could, “I hate to be the one to tell you this, sir, but there are certain injuries, external and internal, which point to,” the doctor seems to struggle with the words for a moment before saying softly, “He was sexually assaulted, sir.”

Whatever the Sheriff had been expecting, this was worse. He slumped helplessly at that, the lines in his face deepening and his powerful air of authority dropping. His son had been assaulted. He was the Sheriff, he was supposed to prevent those kinds of things from happening to people and now his Stiles, his son, had fallen prey to some sicko roaming the streets of Beacon Hills looking to make a victim out of someone.

“How did this happen,” he asked of no one in particular, shock thinning his voice. He rubbed a hand over his face, agitatedly, staring at a point on the wall but not seeing it at all.

“I’m very sorry,” the doctor said solemnly, kindly, “we’re doing everything we can for him at the moment. He’ll be under for a few hours and I'd like to keep him for survellance for a few days while he recovers and I recommend you not take him home for at least another twenty four hours after until things go very well. You should think about what happens next though. He will need counseling; his is an unusual case, but I can recommend some very good group therapy and organizations that specialize in recovery from traumatic events like this. The guidance counselor at his school would also be a very good resource; I would talk to her as well.”

The Sheriff nodded his head, but it was an empty motion. The doctor was talking again, telling him in detail about what they’d found. Stiles’s injury list kept echoing back in his head on a terrible mantra coupled with the image of him lying on the bed covered in blood with hospital staff swarming around him; Grade one sprained ankle, broken wrist, three broken ribs, anal tearing, face scrapped raw on left side, and numerous bruises and scratches. He couldn’t hear anything else over the horror of the information still washing around in his brain, not having truly stuck yet. Stiles, his Stiles, had been violently attacked, raped, and possibly left for dead in the middle of nowhere.

The numb shock started to fill in with anger again, hot, volatile, and righteous. He had to catch the person who did this and bring them to justice. He would, no doubt, take a shot of whiskey, maybe a few, when he got home, but at the moment, the officer in him kicked in, going over the details and finding holes that needed filling.

He turned his eyes from the spot on the tiles where they had been resting to look at the doctor again and demanded, “Who brought him in?”

The doctor shook his head slightly and said, “We didn’t get a name, but one of the nurses described him as dark haired with a muscular build. I believe some of your deputies are checking the security footage for a better identification.”

“Thank you,” he said, back to the cold and calculated Sheriff, in charge of his surroundings once more now he had a mission, “Keep me informed.”

***

The Sheriff burst into the security room and a couple of his deputies spun around in surprise.

“Sheriff,” one of them said, surprised to see him there.

“Do you know who it is,” Mr. Stilinski demanded, voice deadly calm.

“Sir,” the deputy said, hesitantly, “you know you aren’t allowed to work on this case.”

He got intimidatingly close to the other officer so he was forced to look away. “I am your senior officer,” he growled threateningly.

For a moment it almost looked like the deputy was going to back down but he straightened his back and said, stubbornly, “I understand procedure sir. He’s your son; you can’t take this case on. I can promise you we will do all we can to take down whoever is responsible for hurting your son, but you have to step back and trust us to do our jobs.”

The Sheriff broke down a little at that. These were some of the best officers on his force working Stiles’s case, they could do this, but he felt so helpless. It showed in his voice when he said, “But that’s my son, I have to do something.”

The deputy hesitated, understanding how hard this was, the boy was all he had left. “We would appreciate your expertise,” he said with a grudging sigh, giving in to the guilt, but his voice was firm when he said, “But you can help us in an advisory capacity only, sir.”


	2. Scott McCall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took awhile for the news to reach Scott that Stiles had been hurt. When it did though, there wasn't a force in the universe that could have kept Scott from figuring out who had attacked his best friend.

“Get me in there,” Scott begged his mom, “You know it was a werewolf who did it. I can figure out who it was.”

His mother looked torn for a moment, biting her lip. She looked back up at her son and his eyes were full of determination and she was struck again by how much older he looked these days. Scott had grown up a lot in the last year, become more mature and responsible. He wasn’t the innocent little boy with asthma anymore who wanted nothing more in the world than to be a star player on the lacrosse team, now he was strong and capable; trying to look out for the people he loved. Her heart swelled with pride but it was tempered by sadness for her baby boy, who was growing up too fast.

She sighed and nodded before agreeing, “Alright fine, but you have to be careful. I don’t want to see you in that hospital bed next.”

Ten minutes later with a fancy scheme of coffee and a cry of help, she distracted the deputy that had been set to guard Stiles room and Scott slipped in. Stiles was under light sedation, but in Scott’s opinion it wasn’t nearly heavy enough. He was covered in bandages. The left side of his face and chin had been scraped raw against rocks, his wrist was in a sling, and there was the bulge of more bandages under the hospital gown as well as the splint on his ankle.

Guilt raced through Scott as he looked at Stiles, broken on the bed, smelling the medication and dried blood. He had been out in the preserve with Stiles when it happened, he could have prevented this, but he’d been too distracted to go looking for him, assuming Stiles had already gone home.

Stiles face scrunched up and he shifted uncomfortably, making small distressed noises. Scott got closer as Stiles mouth started forming words that were jumbled together. He started getting louder, moaning and pushing his hands at invisible persons, asking for help and telling someone to stop. Scott looked worriedly toward the door; he didn’t want to leave Stiles in distress, but he had to make this fast before someone found him.

Scott took a close sniff of Stiles body, particularly the claw marks. The scent he sought was masked by the hospital personnel and the work they’d done on Stiles. It was still there though, underneath everything, one scent that was out of place but also everywhere. It took him a second to place, but, when he did, Scott’s entire body went rigid.

Stiles spoke Scott’s thoughts as he finally said something completely intelligible, moaning and begging pitifully, “Derek, no.”

Scott’s eyes flashed dangerously and his claws and teeth made themselves known as anger boiled in his heart. An angry howl was building in his chest and he only barely managed to control himself from letting it loose right there in the middle of the hospital. He could hear his mother losing the interest of the deputy, who would be around the corner soon.

“I’ll find him Stiles,” Scott promised solemnly. He had the door cracked open and was just about to race out when Stiles cried out something very weird.

“Derek, help,” Stiles yelled, voice horse and mangled but the words clear enough, begging for Derek to save him, “Derek! Please!”

 Stiles started thrashing around violently, the heart monitor, which had been steadily increasing in volume, spiked in noise as Stiles heart raced with fear. Scott heard people running his way and booked it out the door with a worried and confused glance back at his best friend.


	3. Derek Hale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek couldn't remember what had happened for the past few days. It felt like simple memory loss, like forgetting what he had for breakfast, but this was days of events that faded off into nothing. But maybe it was better that he couldn't recall.

Derek had handed Stiles off to the first set of nurses that had rushed up to him with wide eyes. When Stiles disappeared from his sight Derek tried to follow but the orderly trying to ask him questions put a hand on his chest and told him something about how the doctors would be taking good care of Stiles and that he’d only make things worse if he tried to follow. Derek didn’t want to stay there though, he wanted to be by Stiles’ side, protecting him. Stiles had been bleeding for god’s sake!

But all the sensory information he’d been denying for the past half hour came rushing back in one terrible conclusion. He’d been too preoccupied with getting Stiles there alive that it didn’t really hit him exactly what had happened until that moment. Derek looked down at his hands and saw the blood there, Stiles’ blood. The orderly was trying to talk to him, but Derek wasn’t paying any attention, the horror and disgust making discordant white noise in his brain.

He’d gotten Stiles to the hospital by not thinking about it. He’d woken up in the woods next to a cold, naked Stiles who looked like he’d just been through hell, limbs twisted and still bleeding in places. He’d wrapped Stiles in the shreds of clothes he’d found lying around them to keep him warm, pulled what was left of his own jeans on, and just run. He couldn’t remember anything about the past few days, let alone the night before, but the evidence scattered all over their bodies and the forest floor was undeniable.

Derek’s hands were shaking and suddenly the building was a crushing weight above him. Not hearing even a single word the orderly said, Derek raced out of the ER like a bat out of hell. He hit the parking lot and fell on all fours in a flat out wolf like sprint that took him deep into the woods. He ran as hard as he could like he could outrun what had happened. It was a mark of how much he didn't care where he was going that he ended up making huge circles through the Preserve.

He slowed down sometime after night had fallen and straightened up on two legs again, pacing agitatedly between the shadows of the moon drenched trees. He was breathing hard from the exertion and from the panicked denial that was bouncing around in his chest. He swallowed hard, shutting his eyes tight for a moment as he paced back and forth.

The image of Stiles passed out, bleeding, and white as a sheet next to him wouldn’t leave Derek’ mind. He tried with all his might to deny it because it _couldn’t_ have happened, but the picture in his mind was as clear as though Stiles was on the ground in front of him again. The scratches had stood out so starkly in comparison to Stiles’s ashen skin and blood that should have been coloring that skin with blush was slicking it with crimson instead. He realized, as he held back a wave of nausea from the picture and the guilt that came with it, that his hands and body still stank of blood, dried and chipping off his skin. He couldn’t help it; he leaned against a tree and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the leaf litter at its roots. He dry heaved several times before stumbling away and walking like a drunken man toward the smell of water.


	4. Alan Deaton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Deaton sometimes wished that his assistance would stop being needed after he had closed the clinic for the night, but he wasn't going to turn anyone away either, not if there was a chance he could help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been debating around a lot with how to take this and, specifically, how I'm going to deal with the change in alphas that happened this season. I've finally decided to just go with my original plan and leave their ranks as they are. Although, input wouldn't go amiss if you have an opinion on this.

Deaton had just closed the clinic for the night and was doing one last sweep when the animals in the back started making the telltale noises that meant a wolf had just entered the building. The emissary was on alert, hand in the pocket of his coat as he did a slow sweep. Things had gotten more dangerous lately and he’d made his own safety more of a priority than usual. He’d been caught off guard a few times in his place of work and he was determined that it would never happen again.

The caution turned out to be for not when he found a familiar shape outlined in the shadows of the store room. The room was dark but by the light shining in from the exam room Deaton could see Derek’s silhouette sitting with his knees clutched to his chest like he was trying to make himself smaller and become one with the drywall.

“Derek,” Deaton said in greeting, a question lacing his tone.

The werewolf in question didn't move or acknowledge the presence of another person in the cramped space with him. Deaton waited a few second and watched the reflection of light bounce red off Derek’s eyes and disappear as he blinked.

“Come into the clinic and we can talk more comfortably,” Deaton invited him gently when it became obvious Derek wasn't going to say anything.

It took him a second but Derek finally shifted. The vet moved out of his way and watched him move slowly into the more open space of the exam room. He didn’t seem to be injured in a physical sense, but his movements were hesitant and forlorn as he stepped further into the light. His feet were bare and dusty from his run here, leaving a small trail in his wake and making a scuffing sound when he moved his feet. Derek’s jeans were ripped and dirty, the waist unclasped and hanging lopsidedly on his hips. There was a dark stain on the denim that Deaton recognized as blood. His hair was damp like he’d recently been soaked and it dripped onto his shoulders as it was shaken loose and into his lifeless eyes, eyes that would not meet Deaton’s as he scrutinized him. Derek stayed close to the wall and never once presented his back to Deaton as he drifted into the wider room.

“So,” Deaton said, smoothly, “But what brings you here?”

“I couldn't think where else to go,” Derek admitted quietly, almost ashamed, turning his head further away from Deaton but never letting him leave his peripherals.

“What’s happened to make you drag yourself in at closing time,” Deaton asked slowly as he assessed Derek.

“I think I’m sick,” Derek said numbly but there was a bitter undertone as he said, “You take sick dogs to the vet right?”

Deaton’s phone went off in his pocket and he pulled it out, glancing at the name.

“It’s Scott,” he informed Derek calmly, “Do you mind if I take this?”

Derek didn’t reply and the vet took that as assent. He answered casually, “Scott, what an interesting night it’s been. Are calling for the same reason Derek showed up in my store room?”

“He’s there,” Scott asked, taken aback and urgent.

“Yes,” Deaton answered slowly, picking up on Scott’s tone and glancing calculatedly at Derek, who hadn't moved, staring at the same spot on the floor.

“Close off the clinic and don’t get near him,” Scott warned, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Why, what’s happened,” Deaton demanded, his voice going sharp.

“He attacked Stiles,” Scott explained, fury evident in his voice.

Deaton looked sharply at the werewolf in question. Derek certainly looked like he’d recently been through something horrific but he didn't look like a man who'd just savaged a teenage boy. His face said he expected, and almost hoped, that some divine justice was going to shoot him down any second.

"Is Stiles alive,"Deaton asked, his voice hard and demanding.

"Yeah, but-" Deaton didn't wait for Scott to finish. His promise to Talia had played through his mind as he scrutinized her son and he came to a decision. “Don’t come, Scott. Let me handle this,” Deaton phrased it like a request but he said it with the finality of an order.

“But,” Scott started to protest but Deaton cut him off, “For now, you should watch over Stiles. I’ll call you if I need you.”

It showed how much respect and trust Scott had for his boss that, after a moment, he reluctantly responded, “If you don’t call me in half an hour, I’m coming over there.”

“I don’t think it will be necessary, but thank you Scott,” Deaton said as he looked back at Derek. Someone else would not have been able to read it, but Deaton could see the expression in Derek’s eyes. It made him look a child again, scared and shocked, looking for some kind of comfort or hope after a nightmare.

Deaton hung up his phone with a firm finality and was all business when he said, gently but not necessarily kindly, “Maybe you should sit down and tell me what happened, Derek.”

The news that Stiles was alive at least seemed to give Derek a little life and without a word, Derek sat on the chair by the wall. It was a place, Deaton noted, he could see the whole room, a very defensive position and not one he faulted Derek for. He crossed to his own chair and wheeled it over with deliberate motions, never turning his back on Derek. He sat in front of young Hale, expectant.

“I,” Derek started but frowned at the ground in frustration, not able to get the words out, voice thin when he did continue, “I don’t know what happened.”

Derek stared at his clasped hands in his lap for a long moment, his expression dark and full of self-loathing. Deaton watched and let Derek sit in silence with his jaw working like he was chewing on something hard, knowing Derek needed to tell the story in his own time. “I can’t remember the past few days. I just woke up this morning and he was bleeding and I could smell,” Derek’s voice was guilt ridden, bitterly hateful, and he cut himself off like the very thought of the memory was too horrible to imagine. Derek looked for a few seconds like he wanted to continue but the crumbling façade of his strong exterior broke completely for a second and he was just as vulnerable and scared as Deaton had known he was. Then it closed off again and he asked, voice hard, “What happened to me?”

Deaton still said nothing, watching silently. Derek looked up at him accusingly, looking for somewhere to vent the blame. “I know you know,” his eyes and voice held a threat, the threat of a man with nothing left to do but be brash and bullheaded.

“I don’t have all the answers Derek,” Deaton started and held up a hand when Derek started from his seat, “It could have been any number of things, I don’t know enough yet to be sure. But you already know what this looks like. You are an alpha now and that means you are more connected to that primal part of yourself. Given everything that’s happened to you, it would make sense that that side might take over when you felt like you couldn’t handle things.”

Derek settled slowly back down into his seat, taking in the words as he stared unseeingly at the floor in front the vet’s shoes. Any other time, Derek might have snapped at him that he hadn’t lost control, but the grim truth was there weren’t a lot of answers right now. He knew Derek hadn’t lost control in a long time, and never so badly for so long, but it was a possibility. He would no doubt go searching for a different explanation later, but now Deaton could see the ghosts that flew before Derek’s eyes as some darkness took his expression once more. His shoulders were slumped, his armor slipping so defeat and hopelessness started to leak through the cracks.

“I didn’t bite him though,” Derek said quietly and the words sounded as though they were being drug from him, like saying them might make them untrue but leaving them unsaid would drive him to insanity.

“It’s a miracle you didn’t,” Deaton agreed calmly, “Could you imagine trying to deal with this and being turned as well?”

Derek flinched but asked, as though he were a boy again, demanding to be let in on the grownup talk, “Why?”

The question could have been why he didn’t bite Stiles but it also had the ring to it of a man asking the universe why it always tore him apart, why he always seemed to be the one to create suffering for everyone else. Deaton looked closely at Derek for a moment; at the drawn, tormented expression on his face. His guilt was like a well inside him, growing with every failure, so deep it nearly swallowed him whole.

The emissary decided to answer the only question he could decently and maybe even truthfully. He caught Derek’s eyes with a knowing and gentle, but still stern, look and said softly, “Maybe a part of you _was_ there, trying to save him.”

It was not meant to be a comfort. It was merely a statement based on the murky conclusion drawn from obvious fact, but it was a small comfort all the same.

***

Deaton was glad he’d decided to call Scott back sooner rather than later. He could almost feel the tension buzzing under the young man's skin through the phone. He was one wrong word away from racing over here right now.

“Deaton,” Scott answered both worried and relieved, like he thought that he’d read the name wrong or someone else would answer him.

“It’s me,” Deaton could hear Scott start to take a breath and feel the well of emotion and words that was about to come pouring forth, so he stopped it short with a quick, “and before you ask, yes I’m okay. Derek isn’t a danger right now.”

“You should see Stiles,” Scott’s words were sharp as he contradicted Deaton, furious in a way the vet hadn't heard his assistant before, “I’ll be there soon.”

“There’s no need for that,” Deaton said coolly, “I can keep him here. He won’t get out.”

“It’s not about him getting out,” Scott growled with the biting undertone of vengeance.

Deaton tensed at the blood lust lacing Scott’s voice. The way Derek was right now, he wouldn't even lift a finger to defend himself if Scott came to kill him. Deaton wouldn't let Scott become that. He had stood by and let enough horrors befall this place, Scott he could help.

“Letting revenge cloud your mind isn't going to help anyone,” Deaton’s words were sharp and logical.

“Do you know what he did,” Scott shouted and there was an inhuman note to the words as he said it.

“Not the whole story, but I think there’s a lot more going on than you think, Scott. Something’s not right here,” Deaton said urgently, trying to bring Scott back around.

“It was him,” Scott held, certain beyond a shadow of a doubt. Deaton could hear the sound of a door opening and the crackling of free flowing air from Scott’s end of the line.

“No, it wasn't and if you come after him, I will stop you,” Deaton’s words were cold with his threat. He didn't want to, but if he had, he would use force to keep Scott from going through with this.

Scott was silent for a moment, struggling with himself. Deaton heard the air flow around the phone lessen as Scott stopped in his tracks. He took the opportunity, knowing this was his one chance to get Scott calm enough to help him.

“Don’t make me do this Scott, Stiles needs you,” Deaton said, appealing to Scott in the only way he knew would get Scott to cooperate.

Deaton listened to his angry breathing hitch and lessen as he deflated. Scott made a strangled noise on the other end of the line and asked, frustrated, “Then what am I supposed to do? I can’t just sit here.”

“You won’t” Deaton agreed, “There’s something I need you to do.”


End file.
